


What Liberties Lie Within the Marble Lover

by Lynchy8



Series: Fun (and sad!) little drabbles [32]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, First Time, Fluff, Intercrural Sex, M/M, One Shot, PWP, Sharing a Bed, Smut, porn with a small amount of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 12:03:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7573363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Grantaire usually drew Enjolras’s attention for one reason or another of an evening, be it his extraordinary soliloquys or his bemoaning an attack of the spleen. This evening he had sat with Prouvaire, passing quiet discourse, sipping from one bottle and leaving the other two abandoned and ignored.</i>
</p>
<p>Enjolras tries to sort through his feelings for Grantaire towards a somewhat surprising conclusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Liberties Lie Within the Marble Lover

**Author's Note:**

> Hello gentle readers.   
> You may have noticed, I'm on something of a canon era kick at the moment. I'm quite excited at the prospect of the BBC giving the Pride & Prejudice treatment to the brick. Fingers crossed because with six hours to play with they could even bring up the sewers (though perhaps not to the length we were originally treated to by Hugo)
> 
> This is not an angsty fic, it's all smut and fluff - if anyone would like anything specific tagged, please let me know.

It had been a productive evening and Enjolras was satisfied with the results. There was consensus to make advances to the Stonecutters, to see if there was any support to be found in that quarter. Bahorel had already volunteered his services which had quickly been agreed, and so the meeting broke up.

Joly and Bossuet had retired, and Enjolras had seen them out in the alley walking arm in arm with their Musichetta. Bahorel was engaged with conversation and cards over a bottle of wine with Feuilly and gave the appearance of losing cheerfully. Combeferre had pressed his shoulder five minutes previously with a smile, retiring to his rooms as was his custom. That left Courfeyrac who was making his way over to where the last of their group was sitting by the window.

Grantaire usually drew Enjolras’s attention for one reason or another of an evening, be it his extraordinary soliloquys or his bemoaning an attack of the spleen. This evening he had sat with Prouvaire, passing quiet discourse, sipping from one bottle and leaving the other two abandoned and ignored. As their friends moved around them, so Grantaire had lowered his head to rest upon his arms as if he found it too heavy to hold up by itself. Prouvaire had played with his curls for a while, looking up to smile as Courfeyrac approached.

“Friends,” Courfeyrac clapped his hands together. “Shall we find some pleasant place to take some supper? The evening calls to us, what say you, R?”

Enjolras observed as Grantaire raised his head, blinking up at Courfeyrac standing beside him. Courfeyrac’s brow crinkled in concern. “Capital R, you are well?” Enjolras understood well his double meaning, for Grantaire’s flush was visible from over here.

Grantaire raised a small smile. “My cheeks are painted more by cold than wine, for the glass here does not sit happily in its frame and so gives me a chill.” Jehan, beside him, nodded in agreement, shooting a glare at the offending window as though it might pull itself together. “Though I wish no harm to the season itself. I fear summer may come too soon.”

It may have been Enjolras’s imagination, but Grantaire’s attention seemed to flick over to him, their eyes meeting ever so briefly, before returning to his immediate company, and Enjolras felt almost sure it had never happened.

“Well, to find you in such a sober state, perhaps I might warm you with some pastime or other. I am sure there is some entertainment to be had.”

At the offer, which Enjolras could guess was not half as innocent as the smile behind it, he held his breath, somehow anxious for Grantaire’s answer. Courfeyrac was the warmest soul and truest friend. He offered love and comfort to all and was most generous amongst his friends. Enjolras loved him, but now his insides knotted with anxiety. Jealousy was an ugly emotion, a quality he was not at all proud of. It was no business of his how his friends passed their time or affections. And yet he held his breath.

“Your offer is a kind one,” Grantaire’s face relaxed into a sort of sadness. “But I will decline.” Enjolras felt relief, followed by a sense of shame for that relief.

“For you know,” Grantaire continued, resting his chin on his hands. Courfeyrac interrupted him.

“I know,” he agreed in a kindly voice. “And _you_ know,”

“I know,” R nodded, eyes closed and shaking his head. “And so we know, and reach an impasse.”

Enjolras felt the riddle of the conversation, its meaning hidden even deeper than the original proposal which, if heard by unfriendly ears, might have caused much offence. So what, then, could it be that must be buried even deeper than that?

Courfeyrac patted his shoulder before extending his hand to Prouvaire. Jehan looked with concern to their comrade between them, and there were some moments of murmured assurances, nods and smiles and pressed hands, before Prouvaire took his leave.

An explosion of laughter from across the room broke Enjolras’s attention, reminding him that he was midway through packing away his papers. He settled to the matter at hand, but couldn’t help but cast a final glance over to where Grantaire was still sat in quiet repose, his fingers tapping silent melodies against the scored table surface.

Enjolras considered the man before him, the way he worried his lip with his teeth, head canted to one side. And then his feet were crossing the room quite of their own accord. Grantaire looked up at the sound of his approach, starting slightly and sitting up as though a school boy spotted slouching by his tutor.

“Enjolras, how is it that lights cast such shadows?” It was a poor imitation of Bacchus and Enjolras was in no mood for it.

“Come now, Grantaire, I know you are not drunk. I heard you say so to Courfeyrac,” he chided, mindful to keep his voice gentle and so hopefully to prevent an unnecessary quarrel. Grantaire nodded in agreement, pursing his lips.

“Indeed, t’is true. I have somewhat lost my taste for wine this evening.”

Enjolras was not sure how to proceed. He had made it thus far and passed early cordialities without jibes or bad humour from either side. He felt compelled to continue, to seize the opportunity to seek further acquaintance, but did not know how. Grantaire appeared to be in a complex mood, neither loud nor melancholy. 

“Walk with me?” He invited, wondering if he might have more success than Courfeyrac. For that was what it boiled down to, in the end. He would have Grantaire choose him and his company over another.

It was both shock and relief to acknowledge the feeling, that there was interest in the man that sat before him, mouth slightly open as he processed Enjolras’s request. Then his eyes appeared to sharpen, shoulders pulling together at some sort of decision.

“Yes, I think some fresh air is most decidedly what is called for,” he agreed, rising up to leave.

And so they descended into the Rue de Gres together, walking the path towards the river, not quite arm in arm, but with an air of comfortable familiarity as the air nipped at their ears and noses. It was, as Grantaire had observed earlier, uncommonly cold. 

It was not far to Enjolras’s rooms. They were comfortable and warm with a cheerful fire in the grate. Enjolras made space for his visitor, moving a pile of books from the chair so that Grantaire might sit down. He took a moment to reflect that Grantaire had not visited him before, and seemed to look about him with a little uncertainty. He picked up one of the books so recently moved to the floor, finding it to be a treatise. With a certain gleam in his eye, he asked a question which Enjolras answered easily, and so a comfortable conversation was begun.

The exchange between them was easy, if a little spirited for the hour. Enjolras found some bread and an amount of cheese wrapped in cloth which they fell upon as they talked. A healthy colour returned to Grantaire’s cheek which was not unattractive, and wholly unrelated to the winter or the wine. 

Although as to the wine, Enjolras was feeling warm in both body and mind, felt easy in Grantaire’s company in a way he had not expected, and was pleased to find no sign of awkwardness with his guest. Perhaps that was why, at the next lull in their talk, Enjolras summoned some courage to broach a subject that could be considered delicate.

“Grantaire, why did you turn Courfeyrac away?” Enjolras would not pretend to misunderstand his friend’s intention. Courfeyrac loved easily and readily. Enjolras was not disgusted as some men might well have been, and he knew that his friend would have treated R well, had the offer been accepted. But Grantaire had refused him. 

The smile did not drop from Grantaire’s face, but the brightness diminished somewhat as he considered Enjolras’s question. Enjolras half expected him to fire a quick retort, one that would dance around the answer rather than provide it. He swallowed, hoping he had not trampled across their good mood. 

“Courfeyrac is a good man.” Grantaire agreed, licking his lips. “All heart and the very best of us. Another day, another time…” he trailed off, shrugging. Enjolras felt brittle, as though a tender trust was being forged between them. 

Grantaire raised his eyes, a crooked smile upon his face. “You wish I had gone with him then?”

It was not quite a challenge, but Enjolras felt his face flush hot, knowing that it was exactly the opposite of what he wanted. Grantaire must have seen something in Enjolras’s expression, some flash of truth because he blinked, expression frozen, and then patted his coat pockets for a fob watch he most certainly didn’t own.

“Well, Enjolras, I… the hour is a lot later than I realised, I’m sure,” he rose to his feet, Enjolras too, feeling sorry for the break in the mood. “And I… oh my.”

Enjolras followed Grantaire’s shocked expression to the windowpane. Against it, piled on the sill, was a thick layer of snow. The weather in Paris had changed dramatically, the inky black of night broken up by thousands of white flakes. Enjolras strode to the window, pushing it open against the chill and peering into the street. The glow of the lamps was subdued by the weather, and he quickly retreated back to the warmth.

“You cannot return in this snow.” Enjolras turned firm, all sense of awkwardness forgotten. It was far too late an hour to be wondering the streets, let alone battling such insistent precipitation. “Come, there is plenty of room here,” Grantaire still hadn’t moved, eyes guarded and unsure, so Enjolras emphasised the point. “You are welcome.”

In the end Grantaire relented, and Enjolras set about making preparations that moved them from the evening to the night. The basin and jug on the wash stand was filled with fresh water for the morning, and he procured a spare nightshirt for Grantaire’s use. It was perhaps a little tight across the shoulders but it would have to do. It took a quick moment to clean up the remnants of their evening, and then they were standing with only the last lamp lit and the glow of the dying fire, facing the bed. 

“I do not have a bed warmer,” Enjolras apologised, somewhat nonsensically. It was clear there was no room for such an item in his quarters, and the grate was wholly inadequate for any sort of similar purpose. Grantaire seemed to nod to himself before climbing in to take the position by the wall.

Enjolras exhaled. It was not unusual for two fellows to share a bed in times of need and practicality. He knew Bossuet shared Joly’s room more often than not, and then there was Marius who had gone to Courfeyrac in the absence of anywhere else. In fact most of his friends at some time or another shared intimate space. 

Grantaire was stretched out, staring up at the ceiling. In lieu of anything else to say or do, Enjolras sighed and extinguished the last lamp.

The darkness was kinder than lamp light. The room seemed to relax around them, and Enjolras allowed his eyes to close. Beside him, he heard a gentle sigh. Unthinking, he reached out to grasp Grantaire’s hand, heard the sharp gasp as the man in his bed gripped back.

“Grantaire,” he murmured, “What is it that Courfeyrac knows?” 

He felt more confident like this, felt Grantaire squeeze his hand. 

“He knows,” Grantaire’s voice was strange in the darkness, still soft but with a sort of vulnerability absent from their usual back-and-forth. “He knows, as does much of Paris, that I am claimed. Well, in a fashion.”

Enjolras was holding his breath, hanging on his every word. 

“I did not go with him because I am reserved, but not yet collected. And doubtless shall remain thus I expect.” Grantaire turned, and Enjolras could just about make out his expression in the darkness, the flash of soft brown eyes. 

“But so my loyalty shall ripen like a bottle in a cellar. Incapable of moving, even as I gather dust.”

The metaphor was characteristic of the man, and Enjolras smiled to hear it. He kept his grip upon Grantaire’s hand. He had never heard Grantaire speak like this. He often made overtures, grossly and with grand gestures not wholly to be taken seriously. Enjolras had refuted him, not willing to be made a mockery or the subject of any joke. This honest confession was as far from any joke as he could imagine.

“Do love and lust go forth together so, that you might not enjoy one without the other then? I had not thought you so disposed.” Enjolras whispered. For while he did not partake of the act himself, he knew that many of their friends found enjoyment to be had with women – and for some of them, men also – but not necessarily requiring a marriage proposal to be part of it. Indeed, only Pontmercy had shown himself to be concerned with the actual business of love.

“Oh of course, there is pleasure to be found in the joining of two bodies. And bodily desire and love do not always go hand in hand. But just as one might spend a night engaged in earthly pleasures without the tender kiss of Aphrodite, so there is a kind of love in abstinence. At least,” Grantaire dropped his eyes, “so priests would have us believe.”

“You have never struck me as having been interested in holy orders, Grantaire,” Enjolras whispered, feeling dangerously close to an actual truth. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire sighed, and Enjolras almost shuddered at the soft sound of his name from those lips. He reached out with his free hand into the dark to cup Grantaire’s face, marvelling at how easily his hand fitted to that cheek. Beneath his touch Grantaire gasped, his eyes falling closed.

Grantaire’s lips were rough but Enjolras didn’t care; he swore they were the sweetest taste he had ever experienced. They pressed together, hands moving, seeking skin and contact and familiarity. As they kissed, Grantaire moaned into his mouth, and Enjolras felt gooseflesh break out across his arms. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire repeated. “I believe that I am asleep in the Musain, and in a moment you will wake me, annoyed that I have sullied your evening with the rudeness of my sleeping. So I hope you are forgiving when I smile at you even as you make clear your displeasure.”

“You are not asleep,” Enjolras reassured, kissing along Grantaire’s jawline and then down his throat which he helpfully bared for Enjolras to access. Beneath him, Grantaire keened. Against his thigh, Enjolras became aware that Grantaire was hard, and the thought both thrilled and terrified him.

Sensing Enjolras’s reaction, Grantaire seemed to recover some of his senses, pulling back a little ways, only so that he might make eye contact.

“Ange,” he spoke gently, taking Enjolras’s hand in reassurance. “We need to do nothing more. I told you, and it was no lie, that there is love without the need for anything more, and I hold myself to that.”

Enjolras kissed his cheek, then, feeling a great burst of affection. 

“You are a good man,” he said, and Grantaire started, eyes wide. 

“May I have that written down so that I might produce it at a later time as evidence to your opinion of my character?” he laughed, looking happy. Enjolras shoved at his shoulder in reply, laughing himself, a sort of elation overtaking him.

“I would like us to take time together, Grantaire. I hope there will not be just this one night?” He suddenly felt shy, sitting with the sheet tangled about their legs, his nightshirt rumpled and Grantaire in a similar state. “But perhaps there might be something we could do?”

And here he looked to the expert, for certainly his experiences extended to books and hearsay. He trusted Grantaire not to lead him astray. Grantaire seemed to consider the matter, before encouraging Enjolras to lie back on the bed.

“Just say the word and I will stop, Enjolras,” he assured, hands skirting over Enjolras thighs. He tugged at the nightshirt, casting it upon the floor, before leaning forward to claim Enjolras’s mouth once more. Then he kissed down, across his throat and collarbone, pausing to suckle at one nipple, and the resulting noise seemed to please him greatly. Enjolras squirmed as Grantaire continued his quest ever lower, bestowing worship to his hips and navel and then a sharp nip to his right thigh, and Enjolras nearly cried out. 

But then, oh then; Grantaire went to work. 

Enjolras was no fool. He knew of the acts two people might engage in, had seen shadows moving in the safe darkness of the narrows streets of Paris. But he had no idea that a mouth employed so could make him feel like this. As though his spine had turned to water and all his body was aflame. All his muscles seemed to clench together at once, and he bit down on his hand in an effort to keep their actions between themselves. His hips seemed to move of their own accord, and his hands wound themselves round delicious dark curls. Rough hands braced Enjolras’s hips, and Grantaire hummed happily at the reaction he received.

“Grantaire,” he moaned, praying he was not too loud. “Please.”

He did not know what it was that he begged for; his mind was fuzzy with sensation and need. He knew Grantaire had a silver tongue, but he had never dreamed… he _should_ have dreamed…

Grantaire pulled off him, grinning up at him with eyes that sparkled with mischief. “Enjolras I do believe your words have failed you. Imagine if I had countered your arguments so in front of our friends?”

The thought of Grantaire, on his knees perhaps, seeing to Enjolras in such a fashion while their friends looked on over their lists and maps and plans, just made him groan again, tugging at Grantaire’s hair as he twisted in his grip.

Grantaire and his tongue returned to their task, with renewed vigour. Enjolras felt all loss of control rush upon him, and he tried to give a warning, but it only made Grantaire all the more earnest in his ministrations. With a final gasp, Enjolras came, arching off the bed as Grantaire swallowed him down.

As Enjolras came down from the ceiling, he loosened his fingers in Grantaire’s curls. It was pleasant to lie there, the comforting weight of Grantaire’s head on his belly, rising and falling gently even as Enjolras breathed. Enjolras tugged gently, encouraging, until Grantaire rose to kiss him, Enjolras’s salty taste still lingering on his lips. Enjolras expected to dislike it, but found himself wanting more, drawing Grantaire in with his tongue.

Feeling warm and safe, Enjolras reached down, finding Grantaire’s cock hard and proud between them. Grantaire exhaled sharply as Enjolras’s fingers closed around him, moving tentatively, watching his lover’s face. 

“Is there anything… what do you like?” Enjolras bit his lip, feeling both nervous and thrilled, still elated from his orgasm. Grantaire ran his thumb across Enjolras’s cheek in a tender and intimate gesture. 

“You know me well enough, Enjolras,” he spoke lightly, head canted to one side. “You know of my fascination for all things Greek.”

“I am aware that you have made exhortations on the subject at some length,” Enjolras teased. “But you have made some study of the subject in particular? I understood you an artist!”

“Art comes in all forms, and the Greeks were especially good at the depictions on their pottery of the many acts between man and woman, god and beast, god and man, and many others.” Grantaire dropped his eyes coquettishly. “It was very interesting and time well spent, as I’m sure you would agree yourself if you would permit a demonstration.”

Enjolras nodded his agreement, for while he might not necessarily understand, he trusted Grantaire to show him. Grantaire instructed him to lie down, twisting onto his side, so his back was to Grantaire’s chest. He relaxed into Grantaire’s embrace as the man shuffled up tight against him, and gasped at the shot of want that rocked through him at the sensation of Grantaire’s length pressed up at the crease of his arse. It made him squirm, and want to push back. It made him _want_. He felt rather than heard Grantaire’s quiet laugh.

There were kisses to his neck as Grantaire’s hands skirted down his side and round to his thighs and cheeks, exploring and squeezing, teasing and attentive. 

“I would have you hold your thighs together tightly, Enjolras. If you would allow, I would thrust myself between them, and have you that way.”

“Yes,” Enjolras gasped allowed, reaching behind for Grantaire’s hand. “Oh, please, yes, Grantaire.”

He heard Grantaire huff, and felt a kiss bestowed upon his hand before it was released. The he heard Grantaire spit, which made him startle a little. Grantaire apologised.

“I don’t suppose… you have a little oil? It might be easier…” he trailed off, even as Enjolras reached out for the lamp by the bed. He could spare some for whatever it was Grantaire had in mind, and he was curious to see its effect.

He was surprised to feel Grantaire’s hand squeeze between his thighs, massaging a little oil to them. It was not unpleasant, and Enjolras’s spine was tingling with anticipation. Already his cock was twitching with interest. He could hear Grantaire moving behind him, imagined him getting into position, slicking himself up. Then strong arms were wrapping round him, and Grantaire was resting his chin on Enjolras’s shoulder.

“The gods, Enjolras, have nothing on you,” he exhaled, and then he was pushing against the tight space Enjolras had created as instructed. He pushed himself between them until he was nudging behind Enjolras’s balls. It was ecstasy.

Grantaire moved with vigour and purpose, holding Enjolras tight about the chest. He bit down hard where Enjolras’s throat met his shoulder, and would doubtless leave a mark, but Enjolras could not care. He was surrounded by Grantaire in every way, drunk on the way the man moved between his legs. It made him desperate and needy, made him want all sorts of things. Imagined Grantaire’s cock slipping, pressing at his hole, pushing inside. He could only moan and push back and take all that Grantaire gave him.

“You are exquisite,” Grantaire breathed, before bestowing more kisses. “I retract the assertion that you are marble, before even that might carry blemishes and be cracked. You are perfection, a veritable god come amongst us to tease us with what we might be had we not been born as mortals.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras groaned. “Please take me off that godly pedestal and take me as the man I am. You’ll find my flesh and blood pleasing enough, I’m sure.”

His answer was met with a half-growl half-laugh, followed by another savage bite to his throat. Enjolras keened, craving more. 

“I need – ah!” Enjolras reached up behind him, reaching for familiar curls, needing something to ground him to this moment even as Grantaire fucked between his thighs. “I need more, Grantaire, oh pardieu!”

The hands at his chest holding him tight against Grantaire loosened, as Grantaire reached down to take Enjolras, already fully hard, and move his hand in a manner that matched his thrusts. 

“You are mortal, then, oh piece of the sun, who blinds us all who follow you, who worship at your bright altar. A mortal in this bed begging for release.”

“Yes,” Enjolras whined, only praying that Grantaire would not stop. “Please, oh R, please – ah!”

It was Grantaire who came first, spending between Enjolras’s thighs, and groaning out Enjolras’s name into the man’s neck, chest heaving as he continued to bring Enjolras off with his hand. With a sharp cry, Enjolras followed him, collapsing back against him with a sigh.

They lay together like that for some moments, their bodies slick with sweat, and clutching each other in attempt to stop them both floating away from the surface of the earth. 

“Well, that was indeed a worthy demonstration. Your instruction is particularly favourable,” Enjolras commented once he finally had the breath. Grantaire, loose-limbed in the wake of his orgasm, chuckled fondly, rolling onto his back. 

Enjolras followed him, curling into his side. Already he felt sticky in a way that was verging on the unpleasant. But he would stand it a few moments more just to drink in Grantaire, lying in his bed with a genuine smile upon his face, looking up at Enjolras with a mixture of wonder and love.

Love. 

It should frighten him, for he had only recently admitted the existence of an attraction, without befuddling the matter with love. 

But it was naked and honest, and just for them. A quiet moment within these four walls for them to enjoy, while the snow reduced the rest of Paris to silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Sarah and Claire as usual (particularly to Claire for spotting my typos - and not laughing at me too hard... much ;-p )


End file.
